


Honorarium

by basilophage



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Smut, Eye Trauma, Eyepatch, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Happy Sex, Head Injury, Honeymoon, Injury Recovery, Just Married, M/M, Married Sex, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Third Person, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Trans Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vanilla, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Whiterun (Elder Scrolls), Work In Progress, just some gay mages in love :), preppy quarterback falls for brooding geek but make it skyrim, why won't my tags stay in order
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25840333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basilophage/pseuds/basilophage
Summary: When Thane Rowan Tremaine is injured defending Whiterun from yet another dragon attack, Jarl Balgruuf decides to offer him a greater reward than another trifle from the armory. During a visit to his favorite court mage, Rowan is offered the honorarium: the privilege of marrying the most eminent Nord of the Jarl's court. Unfortunately, Rowan is still suffering from a major head injury and comes to aninterestingconclusion about who the most eminent Nord of the Jarl's court actually is. Feelings ensue.
Relationships: Farengar Secret-Fire/Original Character(s), Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Farengar Secret-Fire
Comments: 19
Kudos: 36





	1. Dragonsreach

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick heads up: because Rowan is basically my fantasy wish-fulfillment Gary Stu, I'm going to be drawing a lot from my own perspective and preferences. I'm a trans masc person who usually doesn't experience genital dysphoria. When sex scenes come around, I'll be using terms like "clit" "cunt" and "pussy" to refer to Rowan's genitals, because that's how I refer to my own anatomy. If you really wanna read this fic but those terms make you uncomfortable or trigger your dysphoria, feel free to use a browser extension (I like Word Replacer II) to change them to whatever terms you're more comfortable with. Or just skip the sex. I won't be mad.
> 
> Also, rest assured there won't be any descriptions of transphobia, homophobia, or dysphoria in this fic. I'm just here to write about some dudes in love.
> 
> * * *

“Hey, Farengar? Can I bother you for a second?” 

Farengar didn’t need to look to know who the voice belonged to, but he did anyway. Thane Rowan Tremaine stood at the threshold of his study, a clean bandage around his right eye and a friendly half smile on his face. He looked much better than he did the last time Farengar had seen him. But then again, the last time he had seen him, Rowan had been out cold in the temple of Kyne. 

Farengar turned away from his alembic and motioned for the young Thane to enter. Today he wore civilian clothes instead of armor, apparently banking on the hope that Whiterun wouldn’t see two dragon attacks in the same week. His tunic was light green with a braided cord trim, trendy and well-made like most of Rowan’s wardrobe, but not ostentatious. His exposed arms were covered in half-healed burns, yellowing bruises, and freckles.

Farengar shifted his gaze back to his alembic as Rowan came near. “Good to see you up and about. How is your recovery coming along?”

“Not bad,” Rowan answered, resting against Farengar's desk. “Danica says I’ll probably regain most of the vision in my eye eventually. She doubts it’ll ever completely heal, but I was sure I was going to lose it, so I can’t complain. I’ll have to keep it bandaged for a long while though.”

“I see.” Farengar felt immensely guilty for thinking it, but he was kind of glad Rowan would be wearing the eyepatch for a while. He liked the way his curls fell over the bandage, and how it drew attention to just how vividly green his healthy eye was. If he had to wear it for a little while longer, well, that suited Farengar just fine.

Rowan craned his neck to look over Farengar’s shoulder. “How’s your hand?” 

“A bit stiff, but otherwise fine.” He held his hand up for Rowan to examine. The skin was still raw and pink, but it wasn’t the blistered mess it had been a few days ago. “Unlike you, I was far from the front lines, so I didn’t take the brunt of the flames.”

While Rowan was still decently far removed from the typical Nord's concept of a warrior, he certainly hadn’t had any reservations about charging the dragon the second it made landfall. Farengar, on the other hand, had held back, slinging spells from a safe distance, where the dragon’s fire could just barely reach. For the most part, Farengar liked to think he had transcended outdated and illogical concepts like valor, but in moments like this, he couldn’t help but chastise himself. He felt like a coward.

“Hey now, none of that.” Rowan slid off the desk and put his hand on Farengar’s shoulder. “You fought well. And unlike me, you fought _smart._ Keeping mages in the back to provide support is the standard tactic for a reason. Me rushing in was, well...that was less standard. Certainly less tactical, anyway.” Rowan let his fingers lightly trail along Farengar’s arm before returning his hand to his side. 

For a few seconds, Farengar found himself unable to do anything but stand frozen in place, nodding silently, painfully aware of how red his face was becoming. Had it been intentional, or was he just overthinking an absent-minded gesture?

“Yes, well, I believe that being the dragonborn places one outside the purview of standard tactics,” Farengar said, fiddling with his cowl. “You needn’t be so hard on yourself, either. Your abilities and valor saved a lot of lives.”

Rowan looked thoughtful for a moment. Just when Farengar thought he might offer a polite deflection or a statement about how it had been a team effort, he instead reached up and pulled Farengar’s hood back, exposing his face. 

“Danica said you came to visit me while I was out. Did you really do that? Drag yourself away from your work just to come sit at my bedside?”

Farengar blinked. Had it been anyone else, he would have told them to get the fuck out of his study before they got a faceful of lightning. But Rowan was the exception to a lot of things. Farengar thought about throwing him out to avoid giving him an answer, but couldn’t find it in himself to do so. If he was being honest with himself, he was thrilled to have Rowan back in his office, on his feet and in one piece. He wouldn't have thrown him out for the world, no matter how many embarrassing questions he asked.

He rolled his eyes and pulled his hood back up. “You’re acting childish.”

“Oh, come on,” Rowan laughed. “There’s no reason why a good looking man like you should need to wear a hood inside. Especially not in the middle of summer. Just answer the question.”

Farengar crossed his arms and let out a long, vexed sigh to mask how flustered he was. “ _Fine._ Yes, I came to inquire about your health. I wanted to make certain that the world’s last hope against Alduin still had most of his skull intact.” 

“Oh? Is that why you brewed so many healing potions for me?”

“So, did you sneak out at risk of Danica’s wrath merely to ask me inane questions, or did you actually _need_ something?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Rowan asked, leaning forward and craning his head to look up Farengar’s hood. 

Farengar swallowed heavily. He was close enough to smell the calendula salve under Rowan’s bandages. He figured that Rowan must have had no idea how his praise and physical closeness were affecting him, otherwise he would have left by now. But then again, there was something knowing in his smile and in the way he held Farengar’s gaze that made him wonder if perhaps Rowan _did_ know what he was doing to him. 

_‘No, don’t be an idiot,’_ Farengar thought, _‘Which scenario is more probable: that the dragonborn himself is trying to seduce me in my study in broad daylight, or that a socially under-developed wizard has isolated himself for so long that he can no longer distinguish between friendliness and flirting?’_

“Actually-” Rowan leaned back to sit on the desk, “I was summoned by the Jarl. I just wanted to pop in before my appointment and ask about that shock spell you used, right after I got blasted. I was hoping you could teach it to me soon. If you have time, that is. I know you’re a busy man.”

Farengar was now essentially standing between the dragonborn’s knees, their bodies still achingly close. There wasn’t anything sexy about Rowan’s words, but some combination of his tone and his gaze and their proximity had Farengar’s pulse racing.

He was still stumbling over his response when he heard someone clear their throat in the doorway.

“Ah, um. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Jarl Balgruuf folded his arms behind his back and politely stared at the bookcase as Farengar stepped back from between Rowan’s knees. “I, ah, hate to interrupt, but there’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

The two mages exchanged concerned looks before following Balgruuf to his throne, where Proventus, Lydia, and Irileth were already assembled. Rowan was beginning to worry. Usually whenever the Jarl wanted to talk to him from the throne, it was because something horrible was either happening or right about to happen.

“Just to be sure, you’re not revoking my title because I did such a shit job of killing the dragon, are you, my Jarl?” Rowan asked.

“Nothing of the sort,” Balgruuf chuckled, settling into his seat. “The complete opposite, in fact. Have you heard of a tradition called the honorarium?”

Rowan shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Farengar’s heart pounded in his chest. _It was happening._ Before, when he and the Jarl had discussed the honorarium and whether Farengar approved of it being offered to Rowan, he had always assumed they were speaking in hypotheticals. Something that _could,_ theoretically, happen in a vague and distant future. When the Jarl had brought it up again on Middas, Farengar had still been too shaken and exhausted from the battle to really process much of their conversation. He kept his eyes forward as best he could, and tried to ignore the tightness in his throat.

“Well, I’m hardly surprised,” Proventus began. “It hasn’t been practiced in High Rock for millennia, though it's uncertain if it was ever widely practiced there at all. The honorarium is an ancient tradition, said to date all the way back to Atmora. It’s still practiced throughout much of Skyrim, and in parts of Colovia as well.“ 

Jarl Balgruuf gave his steward a long, weary look. "May I continue, _Proventus_?"

“My apologies, Jarl.” Proventus cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’ll go return to my duties. Excuse me.”

“There are some heroes who serve with such courage and devotion that a mere title is simply not enough,” Jarl Balgruuf explained, turning his attention back to Rowan. “For a man who has selflessly imperiled himself time and time again in service of our hold, only an offering of the highest caliber will do. To put it simply, the honorarium is the right to marry the most eminent Nord of my court, who I have brought here before you. You’ll also receive a sizable dowry, befitting a man of the gentry.” 

Jarl Balgruuf stepped down from his throne and clasped arms with Rowan.

“Thane Rowan Tremaine, you’ve done a great deal of good for the people of this hold and we are forever in your debt. Whiterun might have been destroyed twice now, if not for your actions. On behalf of all citizens of Whiterun and by my right as Jarl, I hereby offer you the honorarium, as a testament to our gratitude.” Balgruuf’s casual drawl was gone, replaced with the dignified and weighty tone he reserved for official matters. 

It may have just been the bump to the head that Rowan took a few days prior, but he stood for a long time processing what he had just heard. Married. To the most eminent Nord in the Jarl’s court. He turned his attention to Lydia, who was standing behind him. _It had to be Lydia, right?_ In the course of their travels, she had easily become the most accomplished warrior outside of Jorrvaskr. He studied her for a moment, trying to divine her feelings from her expression.

_‘If she’s bashful or giddy or offended at the idea of being my bride, she’s doing an awfully good job at hiding it,’_ he thought. Then again, maybe it just truly wasn’t a big deal to her. Lydia had probably been informed that they were going to offer him the honorarium in advance, and she’d had plenty of time to sort out her feelings on the matter. 

Now it was his turn to consider it. Lydia was his closest friend and confidant, his right hand and his shield. He had no doubt that she would make an excellent partner. While he didn’t have any romantic interest in her, and he was _quite_ certain she had none in him, he could think of much worse people to spend his life with. Either way, there was a lot they could do with a noblewoman’s dowry, and refusing such a prestigious award seemed like social suicide. Besides, surely they could just agree to discreetly see other people, right?

Rowan took a deep breath. “First, I’d like to say that I am deeply flattered. Though I may not have been born here, Whiterun is my home, and I’m proud to defend her just as fiercely as any native son or daughter would. That you would bestow such an honor upon me touches my heart. Words fail me, and I find myself unable to properly express my gratitude. Thank you, my Jarl.”

Balgruuf smiled graciously as he waited for Rowan to continue. 

“Second, while I’m immensely grateful, I’m afraid I can’t accept without hearing Lydia’s thoughts on the matter." He turned to his housecarl. "Lydia, be honest with me, how do you feel about all this?”

Lydia was caught completely off guard, looking from Balgruuf to Farengar to Irileth, who shrugged at her. 

“Uh, well, I think that being offered the honorarium is a very high honor. And I, uh, think it would make you happy, so you should do it?” she answered with a shrug.

Rowan clapped her on the shoulder and turned his attention back to the Jarl, beaming.

“Well, that settles it then!” he exclaimed, and gave a crisp bow. “Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, I joyfully accept the honorarium you have so graciously offered to me. Thank you.” 

Farengar swallowed loudly, his knees shaking under him. Irileth put her arm around his shoulders to steady him.

“Wonderful!” Balgruuf looked almost as excited as Rowan himself did. “It maybe was a bit presumptuous of me, but I have already had Proventus working on the necessary arrangements. If you don’t have any objections, we can have the wedding as early as next Loredas.” 

Farengar felt as if he might faint. _Next Loredas?_

“That sounds perfect, my Jarl. If the weather holds, maybe we could say our vows in front of the Gildergreen.” Rowan turned to Farengar with a look of concern and placed the back of his hand to his cheek. Now Farengar was sure that he was definitely going to faint. “Hey, are you alright? It’s not an infection, is it? You’re a little warm.”

“No, I-I’m fine, truly. It’s...I should go and rest. I’ll, ah, see you at the wedding.” Farengar shook his head vigorously, backing away. 

Rowan barely had time to say goodbye to him before he dashed to his quarters. For a split second, a look of absolute heartache crossed his face as he watched Farengar scramble away. He had wondered for a long time if his interest had been mutual, and Farengar’s reaction to his betrothal had all but confirmed it. 

_‘A day late, a Septim short.’_ Rowan thought to himself. He schooled his expression back to a content smile before turning back to face everyone. He would try to talk things out with Farengar later.

“I should go too. There are a few people I’d like to invite personally, and I’ll need to leave as soon as possible if I want to make it back in time.” Rowan turned and grasped Lydia's hand. “I hate to leave you alone before the wedding but, Lydia, would you mind handling the preparations here?” 

She nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go find Proventus. See you when you get back.”

Rowan waved as she left, then gave another quick bow to the Jarl before making his way out of the hall. Irileth and Balgruuf watched as he left, both smiling.

“I’m going to go check on Farengar,” Irileth said, as soon as the doors closed.

“Please do. I don’t want him to spend his last nights as a bachelor hyperventilating in his room.”


	2. Farengar Prepares

Farengar spent the days leading up to the wedding in a state of manic restlessness, vacillating wildly between uncharacteristic giddiness and total dread. He was, to put it bluntly, a mess. To the point that even _Hrongar_ had noticed something was off, and he doubted the man had ever spoken more than a dozen words to him. Lydia and Irileth had both done their best to placate his fears, but ultimately his mind kept jumping from fantasies of marital bliss to all of the ways this could end in disaster.

 _‘What if Rowan only said yes to be polite and is disgusted at the idea of having me as a husband? What if he wants to consummate our marriage tonight? Should I bring a contraceptive, or would that be presumptuous? What if I’m unable to satisfy him? What if he leaves me at the altar? What if everyone laughs at him, the poor bastard who saved the city from two dragons just to get the ugly, stuck-up wizard of Whiterun as his spouse-prize?”_ he thought as he tossed in his bed. These were all things he would have liked to talk about in advance, but Rowan had only just returned to Whiterun the night before. Normally this would have annoyed Farengar to no end, but in this moment, he was just relieved that Rowan had decided to return at all.

Finally, he yanked open the door to his nightstand and looked at his timepiece. _6:38, Loredas morning._ No point in trying to go back to sleep now. He shoved back the blankets and brushed his teeth, mentally going through the list of things he wanted sent to Breezehome and what he wanted to leave here. Dressing and packing up the remainder of his things took almost no time at all. Aside from his ever growing collection of books, Farengar had always been inclined toward minimalism. He looked around at the tiny bedroom that had been his for nearly a decade and felt unexpectedly sentimental, even though he knew he would be resuming his duties as court wizard as soon as the honeymoon was over. Perhaps he could use his old quarters as a storage closet. He closed the door and walked into the great hall, where the Jarl and Irileth were just sitting down to breakfast. They mumbled their good mornings to each other as Farengar took a seat.

“So...Farengar, are you, ah, excited? For _today?_ ” Balgruuf asked in a clumsy attempt to fix the tense silence. Irileth rolled her eyes.

“I am, my Jarl,” he answered, picking apart a tomato on his plate. “I admit that I’m still not certain that I’ll be a satisfactory match for the dragonborn, but tradition dictates it must be me. And, as he has accepted, I am in no place to argue.” 

Irileth scoffed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake Farengar. The man got blasted to Oblivion and back by a dragon, and within a week he was limping up the stairs to the Cloud District just to see you. You're a 'satisfactory match' if I've ever seen one.” 

"He had an appointment with the Jarl-" Farengar started.

"That he was _clearly_ using as an excuse to see you." She jabbed her fork in his direction. "Rowan accepted the honorarium because he likes you and he wants you as his husband. This is your last day of waking up cold and alone in that sad little broom closet. From here on, you’ll be waking up happy and well-fucked in the strong arms of a handsome man who loves you. Do try not to be so sullen about it.” 

Farengar choked on his milk. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. Irileth had a good point, even if he had a hard time wrapping his head around it. Rowan _did_ seem to go out of his way to visit with him whenever he came to Dragonsreach. Maybe it wasn’t quite the unbridled lust that Irileth had implied it was, but at the very least it was a good indication that Rowan thought of him as a friend. And a friendship based on shared interests and mutual respect seemed like as good a foundation as any for a marriage.

“Perhaps you’re right. In any case, sulking over matters certainly won’t make me a better husband."

"That's the spirit!" Balgruuf leaned across the table to clap Farengar on the shoulder. "I always knew that you and Rowan would be a great match. Such chemistry! I can't tell you how many times I've thought about putting a door on your office just to give you two more privacy."

Farengar pulled his hood closer to his face. "Surely, our interactions aren't _that_ intim-"

"They are. Honestly, every time I see you two together, you look like you're half a second from trying to suck each other's tongues out of your mouths." Irileth interrupted.

Farengar could feel his ears turning red. "Fair enough. If you'll excuse me, I should go prepare now.” He pushed his half finished plate away and stood to make his way to the temple. Just as he reached the stairs, he paused to turn back to Irileth and the Jarl. “I…ah, thank you. For everything.”

They both smiled back at him.

"Of course," Balgruuf answered. "Now get going. Mustn't keep Danica and Jensen waiting."

* * *

In all the time he had been in Whiterun, he had only set foot in the temple a few times, and most of them had been visits to Rowan. It was an unfamiliar place, and he had to admit that he was perturbed at the idea of Danica and Jensen, whom he barely thought of as acquaintances, helping him prepare. While he didn’t have anything against them, the intimacy of having them bathe, pray over, and counsel him was so daunting that he almost considered forgoing tradition and walking to the men's bathhouse instead. But as luck would have it, there were two things that worried him more than being washed by relative strangers. The first was messing up his wedding because he had decided to forego protocol. The second was the idea of running into Rowan in the sauna hours before the ceremony. He opened the temple doors and stepped inside.

The smell of cedar smoke relaxed him somewhat, but really it was Danica who did the most to put him at ease. She was patient with him as he stumbled over answers to her questions, and she charitably ignored how jittery he was. He was pretty sure he had even dozed off for a few minutes as she washed his hair. It was hard to say how long he had been there. It felt as if time didn’t pass at all in the temple, it merely flowed around it. He started to check his watch but then thought better of it, cracking the knuckles of his good hand as Danica ran a comb through his hair. 

“Priestess?” he ventured.

“Hm?”

“You and Rowan have spent a considerable amount of time together. Especially during his recovery...”

“That’s true.”

“Has he...has he ever expressed any of his preferences to you, perhaps? In terms of appearance, I mean?” Farengar asked sheepishly. Asking advice on how to catch the dragonborn’s eye was embarrassing, but the idea of being rejected on his wedding night was an even more humiliating prospect. 

Danica laughed softly. “Well, you're in luck. I happen to know that he likes tall men with dark hair. He did mention once that he likes a man who dresses well, but he doesn’t strike me as the type that would make too much of a fuss over it. He might be a bit of a dandy, sure, but he’s really not as shallow as people say.”

Farengar thought for a second as Danica plaited his hair.

“Still, I suppose I'll have to wear something more presentable than my usual robes. Would you, ah, mind helping me select my clothes? It feels foolish, to say it aloud, but I’ve just been terrified that I’ll make some sort of misstep and, well...” He let his voice trail off. He searched Danica’s face for signs of judgment or disdain but found none. 

“Of course, Farengar. That’s what I’m here for.” She put down the comb and sent Jensen to fetch Farengar’s things. 

While he didn’t have the most extensive selection to choose from, he did have a few sets of robes that he was expected to wear to formal functions. Danica held up a set of white robes to his chest before shaking her head and setting them back down. It went on like this for a while, Farengar listening earnestly as she explained the pros and cons of pairing each garment and accessory to him. Eventually they decided on an embroidered set of robes with a silver trim, and a matching circlet. 

“My my, Rowan’s certainly a lucky man,” Danica said, as she adjusted Farengar's circlet in the mirror. 

And, to his surprise, he agreed.


	3. Breezehome

Rowan hadn’t expected to sleep as soundly as he did. It had been a hard ride back from Falkreath, and his stomach had been in knots the whole trip. But clearly the road-weariness had taken a toll on him, because as soon as his head hit the pillow he was out like a candle. He woke up jittery in the late morning, and hummed one of his mother's old waulking songs to himself as he tidied his room and changed the dressings over his eye. He leaned over his washbasin and plucked at one of his curls, debating whether or not he should trim his hair before the ceremony.

“Hey, Lydia?” he called over his shoulder. 

She was up the stairs in a second, wearing the polished suit of carved armor she reserved for special occasions. He smiled warmly at her. Of course she would wear armor to her wedding. _Steady, reliable Lydia._ It was true that he wasn't in love with her, but that didn't mean that they couldn't live happily together. 

_'Honestly,'_ he told himself, _'it's not like being married will even have any real effect on our day to day lives.'_ Nothing would change, except that from then on they'd wear matching rings, and maybe hold hands in the marketplace every now and again, for the sake of pretense. They'd probably have to be discreet about taking lovers, but they had kept secrets together before, this was hardly anything new. Lydia was more than just his companion, she was his closest friend. They already lived together, already spent nearly every day in each other's company. The marriage was just a formality, really. So why was he so _bothered_ over some archaic vows and a pair of matching rings?

“Yeah? What do you need?” she asked.

“Do you like me better with short hair or like this?” He quickly turned back to the mirror. He didn't have to see his reflection to be aware of the anxiety etched into his face, and the last thing he wanted to do was trouble Lydia with his sudden case of cold feet. 

“Uh, I guess I like it longer, if I had to choose,” she answered, leaning against his bed post. “You shouldn’t worry too much about it, though. You’re easily the most handsome man in Whiterun, Rowan. I know you're nervous, but you're going to be the perfect groom, no matter how you wear your hair.”

"Really?"

"Really."

“Thank you, Lydia. That really means a lot to me.” He exhaled deeply and began preparing his shaving lather. “Long it is then. I know you’ve got plenty of preparations of your own to make for today, so I won’t keep you. But... _thanks._ ”

"Any time." Lydia gave him an affectionate slap on the shoulder before leaving. “I'll be at Dragonsreach going over things with Proventus, but come get me if you need anything. I'm never too busy for you, all right?”

He wondered how she could seem so calm and composed just a few hours before their wedding. Especially when he was filled with so much...what was it, exactly? _Excitement? Dread?_ He was practically buzzing as he opened his wardrobe and started pulling out clothes. He would be more calm once he was dressed, he was sure.

First, he tried on the sage green cloqué doublet that he usually reserved for meetings with Jarl Elisif. While the color was flattering against his tawny complexion, something about it didn’t quite fit the occasion. The black surcoat with silver cording drew a similar reaction. Far too stuffy, far too formal. His frustration continued to mount as he tried on outfit after outfit, hoping that each one would be just the right combination to make him feel at ease. Even on a normal day, he was particular about his appearance. On his wedding day, he couldn’t afford to look anything less than the perfect groom, the perfect thane, the perfect Dragonborn. The eyes of the entire hold would be upon him, and in spite of all of his fame and accolades, he was haunted by the idea of losing their approval. 

Finally, his eye fell on an elegant red coat with a silvery blue trim. He had bought it from a Khajiit caravan months ago, but had never found the right occasion for it. It was made of a cotton damask so fine he had initially mistaken it for silk. His fingers traced the hem. It was perfect.

“Nords like to wear red to their weddings, right? Or is that just Imperials?” he muttered to himself as he pulled the coat on. 

He used a handkerchief to dab on his cologne and regarded himself in the mirror. Not a hair was out of place. Each piece of his ensemble had been meticulously chosen to complement his features. Lydia was right, he looked every part the perfect groom. And yet the knot in his stomach remained.

He remembered how Farengar had reacted when he'd accepted the Honorarium. Lydia might not have any problems with taking lovers on the side, but would Farengar really settle for being his concubine? Could he even _ask_ such a thing of him? Farengar deserved so much more than to be the Dragonborn's dirty little secret, a mere side dalliance. He deserved to be loved out in the open. There was no winning for losing. If he asked Farengar to be his lover and he said no, he'd be devastated, and it's possible Farengar would be so deeply offended that he might not ever speak to him again. But if Farengar said yes, it meant watching Farengar undermine himself for his sake, squandering any chance at real happiness to be with a man who might never acknowledge him.

Worse, was the bitter truth was that it was Rowan's own pride and stupidity that had kept him from the man he loved. On the road to Falkreath, he had occupied himself by imagining all of the ways that day at Dragonsreach might have gone differently. The Jarl was an understanding man. Rowan probably could have taken him aside and explained that there was already someone he had his eye on. For that matter, he probably could have just proposed and asked for Farengar's hand on the spot. He could have just chosen to disappoint the Jarl and politely declined. But it was too late to back out now. As much as he loved Farengar, he could never shame Lydia by jilting her so publicly.

He walked downstairs and hesitated in front of the threshold. His hand hovered over the door knob for a moment before he turned it and stepped outside. _'There's nothing for it,'_ he convinced himself.


	4. The Ceremony

No one could have asked for a more beautiful day to be married. The Gildergreen sapling, though small and spindly, was in full blossom, pink and vibrant under the afternoon sun. A light breeze shook a few petals loose and they cascaded softly to the ground. The crowd that had gathered clapped his shoulders and shouted their congratulations as Rowan ascended the stairs. He smiled and waved graciously, as was expected of him. A perfect groom, a perfect day, a perfect ceremony. The reality of the situation weighed on him more with every step. A month ago, he had been a bachelor, debating over which tunic would catch Farengar’s eye. Today he’d become a husband. He took a slow, deep breath as he rounded the corner. He stopped in front of the priest of Mara, who stood poised and regal at the base of the Gildergreen.

“Thane Rowan Tremaine of Whiterun, we ask once more, in front of all those gathered here, will you accept the honorarium bestowed upon you by Jarl Balgruuf the Greater?” Maramal asked. 

Rowan nodded. “I will.” 

Maramal lifted his hand and horns were sounded to signal the procession. A cheer erupted from the guests as they all turned to look at the figures descending the stairs from Dragonsreach. Rowan turned to look as well, searching for Lydia at the back of the procession.

She wasn’t there.

Following closely behind Jarl Balgruuf and his entourage was not Lydia, but Farengar Secret-Fire. Rowan looked around in barely concealed bewilderment. Lydia, he confirmed with a bit of panic, was standing in front of Jorrvaskr, and definitely _not_ walking in the procession.

He silently mouthed, _“What’s happening?”_ to Maramal, who raised his eyebrow in confusion.

“Your groom is here,” he answered quietly.

Then Rowan's eyes met Farengar’s. Rowan tried to school his features into a placid smile, but it came too late. Farengar was a clever man. A clever man who knew him far too well. It only took a few seconds for Farengar to work out that a terrible misunderstanding had occurred. 

Farengar’s heart sank as he descended the stairs, the puzzle pieces all falling in to place. That odd conversation in Dragonsreach finally made sense: Rowan was so insistent on Lydia’s approval because he thought that she would be his prize. Not him. He cast his eyes down as he approached that altar and readied himself for the worst. Any second now, Rowan would call everything off. The people of Whiterun would talk for years about how the dragonborn had come to his senses last second and left the cantankerous old court wizard at the altar. Farengar wished the ground would open up and swallow him right there. He should have known that all of this was too easy, too simple, too _good_ to be true.

“Thane Rowan Tremaine, before you is Farengar Secret-Fire, court mage of Whiterun, and your betrothed-” Despite Maramal’s booming voice, Farengar could hardly make out the words. His thoughts were racing, the noise around him reduced to a faint buzzing. “-Rowan, do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?” 

Farengar's jaw tightened as braced himself for his impending humiliation. He hoped Rowan would get it over with quickly, and not draw it out by asking questions.

“I do, now and forever.” 

Farengar looked up in shock to find Rowan smiling tenderly at him. While he would have liked to convince himself that it was completely genuine, he knew that Rowan was a socially adept man. He was almost certainly playing along so they could both save face, Farengar told himself.

“Farengar Secret-Fire, before you is Thane Rowan Tremaine, dragonborn, champion of Whiterun, and your betrothed. Before all those gathered here today and before the loving gaze of Mara, do you swear to take Thane Rowan Tremaine as your husband and companion? To journey forth together in this life and the next, in prosperity and poverty, and in joy and hardship? Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?” Maramal asked.

Farengar knew he had to do the responsible thing—the _right_ thing—and stop the wedding himself. It wasn’t too late to tell everyone that this was a mistake. That clearly Rowan hadn’t recovered from his concussion yet and didn't understand what he was doing. But seeing Rowan, misty-eyed and beautiful, gazing up at him in wonderment, Farengar couldn’t call it off. Even as his mind screamed at him that the adoring looks were all for show, he couldn't drown out the part of him that hoped and believed it was at least a _little_ real. Perhaps it was stupid, and selfish, and merely setting himself up for catastrophe later on, but he let the protest die in his throat. He had never been able to say no to Rowan before, and he couldn’t bring himself to start now.

“I...yes. I do, now and forever,” he managed after a while.

Rowan took his hand, and with a red silk cord, the priest fastened their hands over the shrine of Mara. 

Farengar’s mind was a jumbled mess and his pulse was beating in his ears, to the point that he didn’t even register Maramal’s closing prayer. _What had he just done?_ Before he could regain his bearings, Rowan was kissing him, to the cheers and acclaim of the crowd.

Cutting through the noise of the rabble, Rowan's voice was soft and quavering in Farengar's ear. _"It's really you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Bethesda for giving us wedding vows in the game so I didn't have to write yet another set of vows.
> 
> I'm having a blast going through and doing the final edits on this fic. I starting writing this last year while I was very stressed out about my own wedding and _boy howdy,_ does it show (I was projecting _hard_ onto Farengar in this chapter). In the end though, my wedding wound up being absolutely perfect and stress-free. Which is absolutely buck wild, because in my day-to-day life I am an ambulatory ball of nerves that hyper-fixates on minor details to the point of obsession and I once had a full blown panic attack because I couldn't find a hat. In my defense, it was very cold out and none of my other hats matched my outfit.
> 
> Anyway, happy anniversary to my beautiful, perfect husband. If you're reading this, please never mention or acknowledge that you found my secret ao3 account and also please bring the laundry upstairs for me in the morning, thanks.


End file.
